PrintDust's Collection: CSI
by PrintDust
Summary: A collection of my CSI poetry. They are all separate pieces that can be read individually. Most are quite dark.
1. Chapter 1

This was written a couple of years ago and orginally posted under PrintDust. I am consolodating my accounts to keep things more organized. I also cleaned up some errors and fixed some lines that were not working for me.

It was written for Sara, who I imagine would have had a pretty tough childhood. Not just at home but at school also.

* * *

Pretend to be happy,

Force a smile.

And maybe they'll believe you're okay,

For a while.

So you won't have to explain,

Or make lame excuses,

And they won't see the tears,

Or the scars or the bruises.

It's not like they'd care,

Even if they knew,

They are content to show off

Their hockey cards or

New shoes.

You could never be like that,

Though you'd like to belong,

But you're awkward and weird,

And what you say comes out wrong.

And your backpacks too swollen,

With library books,

And you don't have the grace,

And you don't have the looks.

You're too tall and too thin,

And your pants don't fit right,

Your face is pale, your eyes swollen,

From when you cry late at night.

And you wish you didn't hear,

And you wish you couldn't see,

So you'd still be lonely,

But at least you'd be free.

You wouldn't have to pretend

Or force a smile,

And you could really be okay,

If just for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

Hope is just a note-less song,  
that we listen to,

when things go wrong.  
An endless night, a cloudy day,  
A jumbled map,  
That never shows us the way.

Hope is a clock that serves to remind,  
how I live now and a happier time.  
It's broken my heart,  
left me nothing to show,  
it's a danger to me but I can't let it go.

I hold to it tightly in the nights that don't end,  
I whisper it's name like my last living friend.  
It answers me back,  
it tells me to wait.  
That we will find each other,  
if I only have faith.

So I think of her smile.

Her brown eyes are sad.  
I think of her voice full of the dreams that she had.  
I think of her lips, as they kissed me goodbye,  
of my own muted voice,  
asking her _why_.

Now I see her there standing,  
her back to me now.  
I need her to face me  
but I just don't know how.  
Then she suddenly stiffens,  
her body grows tense,  
I know that she feels me,  
I know she can sense.

Slowly, so slowly she swivels around.  
The jungle is thick and devoid of all sound.  
She crosses the distance,  
her smile is growing,  
her laugh is a song,  
her brown eyes are glowing.

I mumble my love in words cut off by laughter,  
I promise myself I will say them all after.  
And when I do later, her eyes shimmer with tears;  
I tell her I've wanted to say them for years.  
I pause and I ask her how she knew I would come,  
as I wipe off her cheek with the pad of my thumb.

She tells me she knew because she couldn't let go,  
something inside her kept telling her so.  
It felt like a song but no one hit play.  
Like the sun that was waiting to start a new day.  
It felt like a clock that was ticking in vain.  
Like a map that kept leading her to the beginning again.

And I thought of her words long into the night,  
as she lay next to me and the whole world felt right.  
I thought about hope and I thought about faith,  
and I thought about love in this faraway place.

I know it's not easy to keep on believing,  
when your world slips away and your whole heart is grieving.  
But hold fast to hope and listen inside you,  
to the voice that's in there,  
And just trust it to guide you.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Written a long time ago after I saw Nesting Dolls for the first time.

* * *

Look into her soul, she's needing.

Look into here eyes, she's pleading.

Sift down deep, under thought and shame.

Beneath the hurt that has left her lame.

See the girl with the dying smile.

Just sit and talk with her a while.

Find out why she's cold and bitter.

Ask her why her daddy hit her.

Ask her about that awful day,

about when the social worker took her away.

She'll only whisper, so listen hard,

about the life that's left her scarred.

Take her hand if she starts to cry,

hug her if she asks you why.

Don't give her reasons,

don't make excuses.

When you do,

_Everyone_ loses.

You'll understand why she's sometimes

angry and cold,

and why her eyes seem tired and old.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I was really proud of this sonnet when I finally achieved it. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

A victim, one might call me, broken, lost,

defeated and ruined, stripped bare, left void

another's cruelty, overcome, destroyed,

by some summer storm, ignorant of cost.

My problem is fear like a morning frost.

And I lost the heart to be overjoyed;

pleasures now frozen, paralyzed, annoyed.

There is warmth and peace this pain can't exhaust.

There is strength left, reserved, hurt cannot take,

In his quiet support, his gentle hand.

There's my face, then his, just inches above.

For him, I'm no victim, too much at stake;

Instead a survivor, trudging through sand,

Not lost, but found and repaired by his love.


	5. Chapter 5

Another poem I wrote after watch 'Dead Doll'.

* * *

It's expectation and desire,

formed inside the soul.

It's that lingering confidence that

makes you feel whole.

It's your heartbeat racing,

with the pulse in the sky,

It's what helps you pull it together,

when you've cried yourself dry.

It's their voices calling out to you,

and your struggle to hold on.

It's what fights off the terror when it's

fleeting…

…then gone.

The sorrow within you,

The 'what might have been',

It makes you want it so badly,

You just can't give in.

It's his hand gripping tightly,

His eyes begging yours,

as he cradles you gently,

It's what his presence restores.

The inner promise of laughter,

what you together dream of,

It's the 'things will get better',

The compassion of Love.

When everything's lost,

and you don't think you can cope,

The last straw, at your limit;

It's endurance; It's Hope.


	6. Chapter 6

I wrote this during the summer before _Dead Doll_ aired.

* * *

They brushed her hair today,

It's shiny soft and brown

I fondle a lock in my fingers,

Then gently set it down.

The way they did her makeup,

Her lips like roses in May,

I think she would have liked it,

I cast my eyes away.

Catherine picked her dress out,

No doubt she would approve,

It's not too much, just perfect,

I try to force my feet to move.

Nick whispers that it's time,

With tears glistening in his eyes,

He tells me they are waiting,

And so I must find the words

to say goodbye.

I begged Jim to be lying,

When I got the call,

I asked him why his voice was

choked,

Why was he in the hospital?

He said something about "incident",

Behind the yellow tape,

The officer didn't hear her screams,

Until it was too late.

I wish I would have had the courage,

To run my fingers through her hair,

When she could have felt it,

When there was still part of her

alive in there.

Her eyes are closed!

I need to see them,

I cant remember

Enough about her,

I need her back, O God, I need her,

I cant go on without her.

They carried her away today,

I couldn't seem to speak,

A quote, I need a quote,

Then I softly, sadly say:

_"My heart still aches in sadness_

_and secret tears still flow._

_What it meant to lose you,_

_no one will ever know."_


	7. Chapter 7

I wrote this about Doc Robbins' perspective. Hope you like it.

* * *

Why don't you come in,

There's nothing to fear,

There's no hate or anger or

violence in here.

There's no shame or pride,

no sadness, laughter or tears,

there's peace, and silence,

And stillness in here.

There's quiet learning, and knowledge,

The saw's high-pitched grind,

but those who are resting here,

don't seem to mind.

There are questions and answers,

there are truths and their lies,

There are those who knew nothing,

And those who were wise.

Those who will be here a long time,

a few days, maybe more,

and those who have someone they're

just waiting for.

There are the ones who were rich,

The lonely, the poor;

They all end up on a cold slab in a drawer.

A tag on their toe, a 'Y' on their chest,

covered with a white sheet once

they've been washed and undressed.

But somehow there is dignity,

respect, and grace;

maintained by profession;

upheld in this place.

So why don't you come in,

sincerest welcome I send,

It's not a bad place to wind up in the end.


	8. Chapter 8

Not my usual style. I guess this was an experiment of sorts. Hope it's decent.

* * *

Have you ever seen a child cry? So desperately and lonely.

She looked like that when she cried. She would pull her knees up to her chest, almost as though she was trying to vanish.

Trying to become invisible. But there was no overlooking those eyes.

So full of sadness and loss yet so empty.

I would have held her forever if I had had the courage. If I had been brave enough I would have pulled her to me and never let her go.

Promised her everything I had and then given it to her without hesitation.

I would have told her everything is okay now. That she didn't have to be alone anymore. That I would be there, that I would be hers, I would be the one.

But I lacked the courage, and the words fell short.

I reached out a hesitant hand and wrapped terrified fingers around her trembling ones and said nothing.

I couldn't.

This would be enough for now.


	9. Chapter 9

This one was written a few years ago after we learned more about Gil's father. It's in consideration of his experience of losing his father at such a young age.

* * *

I remember it wasn't raining,

It wasn't cold, or windy or grey,

The sun was shining so brightly,

When we buried my father that day.

A downpour would have been fitting,

Heavy dark clouds dropping rain,

So I could have expressed some of my sadness,

So I could have been more content in my pain.

Grandpa helped me polish my shoes,

Grandma helped me with my tie,

It seemed strange to me. To get all dressed up,

To stand there and whisper goodbye.

The dirt was heavier than I thought it would be,

Thick, like the clay I molded in art,

It was cool and dark in my small shaking hands,

Weighing heavily on my young broken heart.

The thud of the dirt was so final,

I still hear it pound in my ears,

The sounds of a creeping on migraine,

Grown more bitter and intense with the years.

I'd wished he had not died,

I'd wished that I'd understood why,

I'd wished that someone gave me an answer,

I wish now they'd told me it was okay to cry.

They said that I didn't understand yet,

I was too young. It would hit me someday.

But I knew my father wasn't coming back,

As I stood by his graveside that day.


	10. Chapter 10

This is the last of my poems to be moved over from my other account. Written shortly after 'Nesting Dolls' aired.

* * *

Don't worry no one knows

that last night you beat your wife.

And left her sobbing on the floor

clinging to her life.

And don't be scared, they'll turn away,

They'll just deny the signs.

The lengthily records of broken noses,

Will somehow slip their minds.

They won't want to believe it,

The best card player in the bar,

would be responsible for the blood on the carpet,

or the backseat of the car.

Sometimes you batter your daughter

But don't worry. All is well,

For no one asks her about the scars or the bruises

and she is too afraid to tell.

So don't be concerned. No one will question

when you say she fell down the stairs,

3 broken arms and she's not even twelve.

Just a kid and she already thinks no one cares.

But I sure bet you regret it now,

because you pushed your wife too far last night.

She said this time would be the last,

how shocked were you when she put up a fight.

Have you forgotten the glint of the knife,

as sharp as the one in her eye.

They put your daughter in the system

and hung your wife out to dry.

And they buried you as a victim,

all your drinking pals showed up to grieve,

and when all the evidence was laid out on the table,

They still refused to believe.

And I am not saying it's wrong,

I'm definitely not saying its right.

I am not even saying you got what you deserved on that

cold and tragic night.

I am not supposing it's a good thing,

But I won't for a second condemn it bad.

But I will admit with tears it my eyes

That it's terribly and heartbreakingly sad.

Especially when she tells it.

Her knees drawn up to her chin.

Sometimes she mutters the story in her sleep at night,

forced to relive it again and again.

She doesn't blame your killer.

And surprisingly she doesn't blame you,

she says all it boils down to is the right or decision

to choose.

You can choose to move on or hold on to it tightly,

take a chance and see where it goes.

Or you can glance around in horror,

Hoping that nobody knows.


End file.
